My Dearest Fibonacci,
I write to you about your sequence.
0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34…
It’s pretty remarkable.
You should know years later your prophecy still reigns. Even as nature continues to evolve, your sequence continues to spin away in its geometric perfection. Your numbers still bloom in sunflowers and shine through stardust. Your sequence, the ultimate painter of life and also the story teller of humanity.
However, each approach the paint with different colors. Nature, the rainbow. The story teller of humanity prefers darker hues.
Instead of building mandalas, it builds hurricanes. Using your spiraling numbers to build an unrelenting whirlpool of destruction. A malevolent dance whose circles only get bigger with each spin even as the dance step remains the same.
You of all people know it doesn’t have to be this way. You’ve seen it’s beauty and also its predictability.
The sequence is anything but random, but planned with real forethought. Each number, the sum of its predecessors, coming in with information of “before.” It has knowledge. It can change its course. However, humanity’s sum, only adds up to ill-informed form with no learnings, but only of hubris and grandeur.
And it spins around itself.
Around its history.
Telling itself stories.
The results? Empires rise and crumble with their predecessors none the better off. Destined to dance the same dance.
But beyond the despair, your sequence holds a chilling prophecy.
It warns of our self-inflicted wounds, the consequences of our insatiable thirst for power.
Each number, a reminder of mankind’s ascent into an ignorant madness, as we spiral toward our own annihilation. Getting larger and larger, 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34…
Or simply put.
History continues to repeat itself.
The stakes? Oh they only get higher.